•t^  .;;  r-f-t'^'^:-  '  T. 


my^u. 


'V  M^'^^m/i^^m^'^'^'^^ 


H1E    GUERDON 


;n  A  R  R 


THE     GUERDON 


BY 

HARRY    LYMAN    KOOPMAN 


PROVIDENCE 

THE   PRESTON  AND   ROUNDS   COMPANY 

1922 


Co  PYRIGHT,      I  92  I 

By  H.  L.  Koopman 


THE     PLIMPTON     PRESS 
NORWOOD,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

THE  MEMORIES  THAT  HALLOW 

MY  boyhood's  homeland 


^72440 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

In  the  Sachem's  Seat 1 

By  the  Winter  Fire 2 

At  the  Mouth  of  the  River 3 

Watching  the  Haymakers 4 

At  the  Bowdoin  Commencement 4 

The  Launching 5 

The  Dial  of  the  Ages 6 

My  Maple 7 

To  A  Little  Girl 8 

The  Return  of  the  Artist 9 

Spirit  Photographs 10 

The  Railway  Accident 10 

The  Immigrant's  Funeral 11 

The  Fulfilment 12 

Life's  Hero 13 

The  Chariot  of  Death 14 


PAGB 

God's  Lamplighters  of  Souls  . .     . .  14 
The  Death  and  Birth  of  a  God  ...  15 

Dragging  the  Pond 16 

The  Roman  Flamen 16 

Stronger  than  Life 17 

Dawn  or  Dusk 18 

Dreams  of  Strength  in  Weakness.  19 

Love's  Exile 20 

Wading  under  the  Bridge 20 

In  the  Hospital 21 

New-born 23 

In  Central  Park 23 

Prothalamium 24 

From  Far  Manhattan  Heights 25 

Aftersong:  the  Holy  Grail 26 


NOTE 

The  scene  of  the  events  described  is  chiefly 
Freeport,  Maine,  on  Casco  Bay.  The  teller 
of  the  story  was  born  evidently  near  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  suffered  his  acci- 
dent at  about  twenty,  and  was  restored  to 
health  at  about  forty.  He  may  now  be  sup- 
posed as  a  man  of  three-score  and  ten  to  be 
giving  to  the  press  his  manuscript  already  a 
generation  old  —  a  memory  out  of  a  bygone 
world.  The  "  dial  of  the  ages  "  is  the  circle 
marked  by  the  precession  of  the  eqvunoxes, 
aroimd  whose  circumference  the  pole  moves 
once  in  25,800  years.  The  present  pole  star 
and  Vega  are  nearly  opposite  each  other,  and 
take  their  turns  at  being  pole  star  at  intervals 
of  about  half  this  period. 


THE    GUERDON 


IN  THE  SACHEM'S  SEAT 

o  at  length  to  the  top 
Of  this  wide-revealing  mount 
I  have  dragged  my  helpless  form, 
The  same  that  ages  ago, 
In  another  life  of  mine, 
Tore  me  away  from  my  rest 
And  dashed  up  this  rocky  slope 
In  its  furious  thirst  for  toil, 
In  its  lust  of  strength  for  strife. 

Strange  that  memory  persists 
Across  this  gulf,  that  I 
Can  think  of  myself  in  days 
That  are  one  to  me  with  the  days 
Of  the  Pilgrims,  the  Crusades, 
The  Pyramids,  yea,  with  the  past 
Of  him  who  scratched  on  the  tusk 
Of  the  mammoth  the  shaggy  form 
Of  the  beast  that  bore  it  aloft. 
All  are  blent  into  one. 
Memory,  history,  trace, 
Equally  far  away; 
And  yet  men  agree  in  the  tale 
That  only  twice  has  the  sun 
Quickened  the  earth  into  life 
Since  I  was  that  embryo  self. 

None  of  my  seeking  it  is, 

My  life  on  this  side  the  gulf. 

To  live  was  the  last  thing  I  dreamed. 

I  cried  when  I  leaped  from  the  ice: 

Here's  for  luck  and  the  shore! 

But  that  was  only  to  hide 

The  reason  deep  in  my  heart 

Why  I  took  the  desperate  chance; 

Yet  the  chance  once  taken,  my  strength 

Put  forth  a  will  of  its  own, 

And,  battling  defiant  of  hope. 

Flung  me  at  last  on  the  shore. 

Ten  seconds  before  I  leaped 

Nothing  was  less  in  my  thought. 

Then  it  all  flashed  over  my  brain, 


What  before  I  would  not  admit, 

That  he  was  her  love,  not  I. 

There  was  life  on  the  ice  for  but  one; 

Could  I  blast  her  life  in  its  bud 

When  a  leap  would  settle  all. 

The  longing,  the  doubt,  the  ache. 

When  a  leap  would  spare  me  the  pain 

Of  seeing  a  joy  that  I  willed. 

Yet  a  joy  that  was  wrought  of  my  grief? 

This  too  it  did,  in  a  way 

That  I  could  not  foresee  in  the  breath 

Between  the  resolve  of  my  will 

And  the  icy  clasp  of  the  brine. 

That  was  two  winters  ago, 

At  least  as  the  world  reckons  time, 

And  out  of  that  watery  grave 

I  was  born  to  a  death  in  life. 

Had  it  been  best  —  God  knows  — 

To  have  left  me  prone  on  the  shore 

Till  my  numbness  hardened  to  frost, 

And  out  of  this  earthly  life 

I  had  passed  into  that  beyond? 

Yea,  but  I  have  passed  beyond, 

Through  the  death  of  the  body  I  bore, 

Into  the  life  of  the  soul. 

In  at  that  cavern  of  pain 

I  entered,  a  savage,  a  child, 

A  primal  faun  of  the  woods, 

A  being  with  hardly  more  thought 

Than  the  maple  that  sports  with  the  wind. 

Forth  from  its  hither  door. 

Wrecked  in  body,  I  come. 

In  spirit  full-grown,  and  heir 

To  the  thought  of  the  ages  foregone. 

And  claimant  on  all  that  shall  bloom 

In  the  infinite  springtides  of  Mind. 

This  wrought  Pain  for  me 

And  the  breath  of  a  quickening  soul, 

A  great  Physician's  word. 

To  whom  it  was  given  to  heal 

More  the  spirit  within 

Than  the  body  they  laid  at  his  feet. 


THE  GUERDON 


She,  meanwhile,  far  away, 

Is  happy  with  him  she  loves; 

And  I  rejoice  in  the  joy 

That  she  took  unaware  from  my  hand. 

But  her  joy  may  I  never  behold! 

For,  after  all,  this  is  earth. 

Where  grief  is  the  shadow  of  love. 


BY  THE  WINTER  FIRE 

.^/jjrj^AS  it  only  so,  I  ask, 

if  11 4    My  spirit  could  come  to  its  own? 

^^^"^  Was  my  soul  so  deeply  immured 

In  its  prison  of  flesh  and  strength 

That  only  through  pain  and  wrack 

It  could  burst  its  way  into  light? 

The  light  had  been  all  around. 

Illuming  me  from  my  birth; 

It  was  I  that  could  not  see. 

Some  knowledge  this  earth  compels. 

The  knowledge  of  food  and  fire. 

Of  clothing  and  shelter  and  kind. 

But  there  the  grannam  flags. 

As  if  her  lesson  were  taught, 

And  frets  if  we  ask  for  more. 

As  though  that  more  were  the  charge 

Of  a  higher  teacher  to  give. 

So  from  the  most  she  hides 

That  she  owns  a  loftier  lore, 

And  babbling  we  go  through  life 

Who  should  speak  as  men  full-grown, 

And  halting  we  lag  who  should  press 

To  the  bounds  of  mortal  ken. 

I  lay,  the  past  a  blight. 

The  future  a  blank  unthought. 

And  Hope  long  dead  and  cold 

In  the  arms  of  murdered  Love; 

And  I  said:  When  I  woke  that  morn. 

Why  was  no  warning  at  hand 

Of  the  crash  that  should  bury  my  life? 

What  is  it  worth  to  know 

If  all  we  can  know  is  the  past? 

As  I  spoke  I  became  aware 

Of  two  that  stood  by  my  bed. 

Said  the  elder:  Wait,  and  see 


How  souls  are  bom  into  life, 
In  pain,  as  bodies  are  born. 

Then,  speaking  to  me,  he  said: 

At  last  the  keel  of  your  thought 

Has  run  aground  on  the  shoal 

That  limits  knowledge  on  earth. 

Though  his  head  be  stuffed  with  lore 

That  was  old  in  Babylon's  prime, 

Man's  knowledge  ends  with  the  Now. 

He  knows  not  what  is  to  be 

At  the  next  swift  beat  of  his  heart, 

Nor  indeed  if  again  it  shall  beat. 

So,  in  a  myriad  ways, 

Even  such  as  he  cannot  guess, 

Man's  knowledge  is  bounded  and  cramped; 

And  all  because  he  is  man 

And  can  only  know  what  his  mind, 

The  tool  of  his  knowledge,  is  gaged. 

By  the  power  that  shaped  it,  to  know. 

But  be  sure  that  he  whose  wings 

Are  beating  in  vain  and  bruised 

On  the  ultimate  bound  of  thought. 

Though  he  may  not  pass  that  bound, 

Yet  shall  return  in  a  strength 

That  is  more  than  the  strength  of  man. 

As  Antaeus,  the  son  of  Earth, 

Sprang  up  renewed  at  the  touch 

Of  his  mother,  so  man  becomes 

Greater  than  man  if  he  touch 

The  bound  Heaven  sets  to  his  flight. 

For  the  bound  and  the  touch  are  of  Heaven. 

Nay,  is  it  too  much  to  say 

That  man  then  first  becomes  man 

And  worthy  to  enter  in 

As  heir  and  son  of  God 

When,  bafl3ed  and  sick  at  heart, 

He  finds  that  to  be  man 

Means  to  be  limited? 

So  saying,  he  left  me  alone. 

Nor  waited  to  answer  one 

Of  the  thousand  questions  that  leaped 

To  stay  him.    Open-eyed 

On  the  new  world  of  thought  revealed, 

I  stared  entranced,  as  one 

Who  has  strayed  unawares  to  the  brink 

Of  the  Canyon's  measureless  gulf, 


AT   THE   MOUTH   OF   THE   RIVER 


And  spellbound,  overwhelmed, 

At  the  splendor  unrolled  beyond  sight, 

Wonders  if  what  he  sees 

Be  Heaven  or  its  reflex,  Hell. 

Both  has  it  proved  to  me  — 

Heaven  in  the  sense  of  power 

That  comes  to  those  who  know, 

And  Hell  in  the  impotence 

Of  knowledge  confined  and  caged. 

Again  and  often  again 

My  wise  physician  spake  — 

While  my  body  was  growing  wont 

To  its  new  and  feebler  life  — 

To  quicken  the  life  of  my  soul. 

He  showed  me  how  this  world 

Of  three  dimensions,  which  seems 

The  only  possible  world. 

With  length  and  height  and  breadth 

The  bounds  of  all  that  is, 

May  be  at  the  selfsame  time 

A  living  and  busy  world 

Of  more  dimensions  or  less, 

A  myriad  even  at  once, 

And  all  as  real  as  our  own, 

And  each  with  its  own  fixt  laws, 

But  each  unknown  to  the  rest; 

How  in  time  our  dimension  is  one, 

The  future  drawn  out  from  the  past 

In  a  single  unvarying  line, 

Not  the  plane  of  an  infinite  Now, 

Not  the  cube  nor  a  higher  power. 

Where  time  passes  out  of  itself 

Into  force  —  who  knows?  —  or  will. 

Such  things  my  physician  taught, 

Leading  me  by  the  hand. 

As  one  of  prisoners  twain 

In  the  dark  might  lead  his  mate 

To  measure  the  walls  of  their  cell. 

Thoughts  that  I  never  had  dreamed. 

Which  at  first  I  could  not  grasp. 

He  led  me  on  to  think, 

Because  he  found  me,  he  said, 

A  soul  that  was  ready  for  birth; 

And  he  would,  since  never  again 

Might  I  find  delight  in  the  strength 

Of  my  body,  nor  toil  with  my  hands, 

I  might  find  a  greater  in  thought, 


And  bring  men  gold,  he  said, 

Who  before  had  but  quarried  them  stone. 


AT  THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  RIVER 

tmj^g-  AST  of  a  worn-out  race, 

^il     The  end  of  a  withered  branch 

^^  That  has  lagged  behind  the  rest, 

Stinted  and  stunted,  in  me 

The  men  of  my  blood  behold 

A  life  overleft  from  the  age 

Of  their  grandsires,  siurviving  alone 

From  that  generation  outworn. 

Was  this  the  fatal  defect. 

The  miser  fault  of  my  race. 

That  it  hoarded  for  length  of  days 

The  force  that  should  have  been  spent 

On  fulness  of  life?    But  this 

I  know  at  least,  that  the  words 

Too  late!  Too  late!  have  rung 

Life-long  the  knell  of  my  hopes. 

Too  late  was  I  born  to  share 

In  the  freeing  of  the  slave; 

Too  late  to  have  welcomed  death 

On  the  field  of  that  glorious  cause 

Overswept  by  the  shining  wings 

Of  the  Choosers  of  the  Slain. 

Too  late  was  I  born  for  love,  — 

But  let  me  not  wake  that  chord. 

Which  is  anguish.    Let  it  sufl5ce 

That  I  have  outlived  my  race. 

And  look  back  on  its  course  as  I  might 

From  beyond  the  portal  of  death. 

I  know  what  my  counsellor  said 

For  my  comfort,  and  were  it  true 

Or  false,  'twas  at  least  not  feigned. 

He  held  it  the  goal  of  a  race. 

Of  a  long  succession  of  lives. 

To  produce  a  single  soul; 

And,  its  consummation  and  end 

Achieved,  it  has  served  the  will 

Of  the  World-soul,  and  then  is  free 

From  allegiance  to  life  on  earth. 

Meanwhile,  below  in  the  ooze, 
Overstrewn  by  the  weariless  tides, 


THE   GUERDON 


Lies  the  gun  that  I  flung  from  the  ice, 

Ahready  crumbUng  to  rust, 

The  force  locked  up  in  its  breast 

Ahready  dissolved  and  lost. 

Could  I  then  have  seen  myself  now, 

I  had  said  it  had  been  as  well 

I  were  stretched  by  my  gun  in  the  slime; 

But  now,  from  this  aery  of  thought, 

I  look  on  that  life  as  at  one 

With  the  life  of  the  worm  in  the  mud; 

And  not  for  the  body's  health, 

For  the  bounding  pulses  of  strength, 

Would  I  sink  my  soul  again 

To  the  blindworm  in  the  ooze. 


WATCHING  THE  HAYMAKERS 

ow  the  tough  ash  bends  with  its  dome 
Of  chnging,  odorous  hay. 
Uplifted  to  crown  the  load! 

The  pitcher  from  wrist  to  heel 

Tingles  with  rapture  of  strength 

As  the  true  ash  straightens  back. 

He,  as  he  stands  half  hid. 

With  the  fragrance  canopied. 

The  treader  aloft  on  the  load, 

The  raker  gleaning  behind. 

And  even  the  straining  team, 

These  are  parcel  and  part 

Of  the  only  peaceful  life 

Our  race  has  ever  known 

Since  man  became  more  than  beast. 

Is  it  any  wonder  my  will 

From  its  prison  of  weakness  yearns 

To  be  one  with  that  conquering  toil? 

That  the  sweet  breath  of  the  hay 

Borne  from  these  fields  and  down 

From  immemorial  fields. 

Should  bear  away  on  its  wings 

Thought  and  the  joy  of  thought? 

So  from  his  desolate  isle. 

Through  the  cloud-rifts  of  his  pain, 

Looked  Philoctetes  in  thought. 

Across  the  sundering  deep. 

To  the  thronging  plains  before  Troy, 

Where  men,  his  comrades  once. 


Were  winning  immortal  names 

In  life  or  more  glorious  death. 

Two  things  alone  he  had  left, 

His  arrows,  the  gift  of  the  God, 

And  the  knowledge  that  only  through  him 

Could  victory  at  last  be  won; 

Though  how  he  yet  should  serve, 

He,  the  banished  and  scorned. 

He  could  not  conceive  in  his  pain. 

Year  after  year  roars  the  fight 
But  the  end  shall  not  be  from  force; 
The  silent  shafts  of  the  God 
Alone  can  quiet  its  rage. 
This  is  the  triumph  of  thought 
Over  war  and  the  tumult  of  war. 
Over  din  and  disturbance  of  peace, 
The  silent  shafts  of  the  God 
That  conquer  the  world's  new  day. 
This  battle  of  battles  now  joined  — 
Mere  prelude  was  all  hitherto  — 
Shall  it  still  have  a  part  for  me? 

AT  THE  BOWDOIN  COMMENCEMENT 
MDCCCLXXV 

>^|^ERFECTiON  of  Summer's  morn,  — 

^a  The  thought  and  the  will  of  God 

tT^   Made  real  to  mortal  sense! 

Around  my  halting  steps 

The  dewdrops  flash  like  gems, 

Each  tiny  radiance  big 

With  pride  of  teUing  the  sun 

The  emerald  secret  of  earth. 

The  sapphire  lore  of  the  sky. 

The  birds  on  bush  and  spray 

Are  taking  Heaven  with  their  storm 

Of  melodious  violence. 

From  all  its  garland  of  days 

The  year  has  plucked  this  one 

To  lay  like  a  rose  at  the  feet 

Of  the  men  we  honor  too 

How  scantly  with  gesture  and  word!  — 

The  men,  whom,  about  to  join 

The  Immortals,  we  mortals  hail. 

Might  I  have  done  so  unblamed, 
I  had  knelt  and  kissed  the  hem 


THE  LAUNCHING 


Of  his  garment,  the  singer  crowned 
With  the  praise  of  the  nations  afar, 
But  his  home  is  here  in  our  hearts. 
O  sweet,  benignant  face! 

0  voice  of  sympathy! 

That  for  evermore  I  shall  see, 

1  shall  hear,  while  life  endures! 
The  ground  thy  feet  have  trod 
Is  holy;  the  singing  pines 
Their  own  song  murmur  no  more 
But  thine.    If  prayer  has  power 
To  enrich  a  life  so  blest 

As  thine  through  blessing  glows, 

Daily,  unknown  to  thee. 

Mine  shall  attend  thy  steps. 

But  not  of  us  who  gaze, 

Nor  of  them  around,  the  belov'd. 

Are  thy  thoughts  today;  they  are  given 

To  him,  thy  companion  in  fame, 

As  here  in  study,  to  him. 

The  star-eyed,  thunder-browed. 

Long  since  immortalized, 

Whom  we  miss  today  with  a  pang 

That  darkens  the  smile  of  morn. 

Beneath  the  spires  I  pass 

Into  the  roseate  gloom; 

But  broken  today  is  the  sp)ell. 

For  today  my  thoughts  are  of  man, 

And  how,  though  born  of  earth 

And  weighted  with  earth,  being  man, 

Yet,  being  a  son  of  God, 

He  sets  his  face  to  the  stars. 

And  chmbing  the  wall  of  the  sky, 

Tramples  them  imder  his  feet. 

O  sacred  spot  of  earth! 

Blest  be  their  memory 

Who  cleared  thee,  who  reared  thy  walls, 

Who  lit  thy  sacred  lamps, 

And  blest  forevermore, 

From  grateful  age  to  age. 

Be  they  who  guard  thy  shrine! 

So  one  who  is  not  of  thee. 
Who  never  lit  his  lamp 
At  learning's  holy  flame, 
But  out  of  due  time  was  born 
Into  thy  world  of  thought. 


Prays,  as  beneath  thy  elms. 
He  follows  their  shadows  home. 


THE  LAUNCHING 

iwr-  DIP  my  hand  in  the  brine, 
11    And,  lo!  my  pulses  thrill 
'^   With  the  traffic  of  the  world. 
This  is  man's  highway,  this 
The  road  that  has  no  end. 
But  ever  returns  on  itself. 
Encircling  the  islands  and  lands, 
And  binding  each  to  all. 

Above  me,  huge  and  black. 

Looms  the  hulk  with  its  pennons  and  flags, 

Clear  at  last  of  its  props. 

Merry  the  throng  on  its  deck, 

But  louder  they  who  below 

With  clattering  mallets  toil 

Far  under  the  frown  of  the  hull. 

To  set  their  captive  free. 

The  boys  have  deserted  their  boats. 

The  fishers  their  lines,  all  eyes 

Even  of  the  lovers,  hand-claspt. 

Are  fixed  on  the  towering  bulk 

That  now  as  they  gaze  awakes 

From  lifelessness  into  life. 

The  mass  is  thrilled  with  a  soul; 

No  longer  a  creature  of  earth, 

It  puts  forth  an  ocean  will, 

And,  spuming  its  mighty  bands, 

Like  Samson  rending  his  withes. 

It  plunges  into  the  flood. 

The  ways  are  a-smoke  with  the  speed, 

A  vast  wave  licks  the  strand. 

Across  the  tide  comes  the  roar 

Of  flying  cables,  and  then 

The  hulk  that  we  saw  is  gone. 

As  if  earth  had  swallowed  it  up. 

In  its  room  is  a  bare,  blank  space; 

But  at  anchor  in  mid-stream  rides 

A  new  creation,  unkin 

To  aught  we  beheld  before. 

An  Aphrodite,  foam-born, 

Uplifting  out  of  the  waves 


THE    GUERDON 


A  subtler  grace  than  their  own. 
Now  a  line  is  rowed  to  the  wharf, 
The  capstan  clinks,  and  ere  long 
The  ship,  alongside  the  wharf 
Discharges  its  holiday  load. 

Ay  me!  what  fate  is  in  store 
For  the  ship  that  is  born  today? 
What  far  sea-paths  shall  it  tread, 
What  fury  of  waves  and  wind. 
What  dangers  of  reef  and  crag 
Of  icebergs  veiled  in  their  fog. 
Of  shoal  and  current  and  calm. 
What  rage  of  sun  shall  it  know, 
What  blinding  assault  of  cold? 
Shall  it  traverse  the  ocean  ways 
Long  years  for  the  weal  of  men, 
And  at  last  lay  its  wearied  form 
To  rest  in  some  tranquil  creek, 
Or  suddenly  over  its  strength 
Shall  fate  no  skill  can  ward 
Descend,  and  its  days  be  done? 
But  has  not  a  fragment  of  wreck 
Buoyed  sometimes  a  precious  freight, 
And  borne  it  safe  to  its  goal? 
But  thine  be  a  happier  fate, 
O  new-born  child  of  the  sea! 
Sail  thou  with  kindly  trades, 
On  open  friendly  seas. 
And  many  ladings  and  rich 
Bring  safely  home,  and  safe 
Thyself  in  thy  beauty  and  grace! 


THE  DIAL  OF  THE  AGES 

^^■■^HE  dews  of  the  summer  night 
ilj>  Are  fragrant  around  my  feet, 
^■^   But  my  eyes  are  turned  to  thee, 

O  Vega,  maiden  star, 

O  snowy  pearl  of  the  skies! 

Thousands  of  years  ago. 

So  many  the  spirit  faints 

At  the  awful  range  of  time  — 

Four  hundred  men  in  rank, 

Hand-reaching,  sire  to  son. 

Scarce  bridge  the  monstrous  gulf  — 


The  youngest  sees  thee  now 

Thy  mighty  circle  sweep 

Through  summer's  midnight  dome. 

Till  under  the  winter  snows, 

Thy  kin  in  purity, 

Thou  harborest  for  a  space. 

But  the  eldest  —  if  he  saw  — 

Beheld  thee  in  the  north, 

Enthroned,  immovable, 

While  all  the  glittering  heavens, 

Round  thee  revolving,  thee 

Adored  as  virgin  queen. 

He  too  adored  thy  face. 

And  hailed  in  thee  the  God, 

Changeless,  of  earthly  change, 

If  thee  indeed  he  saw. 

But  haply  he  saw  thee  not. 

Too  close  akin  to  the  brute 

That  ever  his  eye  should  mark 

Thy  splendor,  as  yet  unskilled 

To  traverse  the  ocean  ways 

And  seek  a  pilot  star, 

But  finding  his  way  on  land 

By  scent  and  lowly  sight. 

Even  as  his  fellow  brutes. 

To  such  a  one,  I  ween, 

Yet  chill  from  the  whelming  ice. 

And  yet  adread  at  the  crash 

Of  the  mammoth's  trampling  step. 

My  grasp  reaches  back  through  the  night. 

But  the  awful  dial  still, 

Where  eons  count  but  hours, 

Gleams  in  the  mystic  north; 

And  again  thine  hour  shall  come, 

Again  shalt  thou  reign  the  queen 

Of  the  congregated  stars; 

And  then  with  what  regard 

Shall  man  behold  thy  face? 

Even  in  this  half-hour  gone 

He  has  raised  his  brow  from  the  sod, 

He  has  learned  thee  what  thou  art. 

No  God,  but  a  blazing  sun, 

And  the  fuel  of  thy  flame, 

The  heart  of  thy  mystery, 

His  eye  hath  summed  it  all, 

Weighed  and  measured  and  proved. 

And  found  it  nothing  strange, 


MY  MAPLE 


But  one  with  the  earthly  clods 
That  give  him  footing  and  food. 


But  how  shall  he  view  thee  then} 

Shall  his  spirit  then  have  annulled 

The  abysmal  depths  of  space, 

And  exvilt  in  converse  high 

With  the  splendid  spirits  that  joy 

Unbodied,  unrestrained. 

In  the  light  of  thy  glowing  orb? 

Lord  of  life  and  of  death, 

Freed  from  stains  of  the  brute, 

As  far  from  us  as  we 

From  the  slant  brow  sunk  to  the  dust, 

Art  thou  real  and  yet  to  be, 

Or  only  the  dream  of  an  age 

That  is  now  at  its  highest  crest 

And  can  only  retreat  or  decline? 

Shall  the  brute  again  win  sway, 

And  back  through  hate  and  crime, 

Through  darkness  hugged  to  his  heart. 

Shall  man  sUnk  back  and  hide 

In  the  hairy  fell  of  the  beast. 

No  longer  the  lord  of  life. 

But,  weak  and  slow,  the  prey 

Of  the  beasts  that  his  lordly  sires 

Hunted  for  food  or  sport? 


No  answer  thou  givest  or  canst; 

But  whatever  the  dial  shall  mark 

For  the  doom  or  the  godhood  of  man. 

This  I  know,  that,  as  sure 

As  the  face  of  the  heaven  shall  be  changed. 

New  stars  climb  to  our  skies 

And  old  stars  disappear. 

So  shall  the  face  of  man 

And  the  heart  and  the  life  of  man 

Be  changed  from  what  they  are, 

As  the  Soul  which  is  the  world. 

Through  the  changes  of  the  earth. 

Through  the  birth  and  death  of  stars, 

Yea,  through  the  birth  and  death 

Of  Universes,  fulfils 

For  itself  and  not  for  man 

Its  lone,  eternal  will. 


MY  MAPLE 

^^•^oiST  and  cool  is  thy  shade, 
mtTlI/  -^y  Maple,  though  all  around 

•'  *'^*'  The  cricket  shrills  in  the  heat, 

And  the  landscape  is  wavy  and  blurred 

Under  August's  fiery  breath. 

A  child,  I  planted  thy  shoot, 

Bringing  it  out  of  the  woods; 

With  pride  I  watched  it  grow. 

Till  at  last  it  o'ertopped  my  head 

With  its  lithe  and  upright  stem. 

Then  a  playmate,  to  tease  me,  or  sheer 

In  wantonness,  heedlessness, 

Or  moved  by  a  sudden  whim, 

Drawing  his  pocket  knife. 

Cut  thee  down  to  thy  root, 

And  ran  off  waving  thy  stem, 

The  plaything  of  an  hour. 

Had  the  stone  I  threw  in  my  rage 

Found  the  mark  I  meant. 

His  cries  would  have  changed  their  tune. 

But,  rooted  in  strong,  deep  soil, 

Thy  life  was  hardly  checked, 

And  soon  thy  tuft  of  green 

Was  waving  again  o'er  my  head. 

Slower  my  growth  than  thine; 

Yet  I  had  attained  my  height 

When  full  on  thy  leafy  crown 

Fell  the  awful  September  gale. 

Thy  leaves  were  torn  in  shreds 

And  flung  afar  on  the  wind. 

But  thou  wert  safe,  I  deemed. 

Next  morn  a  third  of  thy  strength, 

A  mighty  limb,  lay  prone. 

And  a  white  gash  rent  thy  side. 

But  the  life  within  thy  veins 

Leaped  with  the  pulse  of  spring, 

And  ere  long  thy  wound  was  healed. 

Then  we  saw  that  thy  grace 

Had  been  heightened  by  the  loss, 

As  thy  crown,  at  April's  touch, 

To  a  perfect  oval  filled. 

But  that  was  years  ago. 

And  now  thou  o'ertoppest  the  waHs 

That  sheltered  thee  once  from  the  north; 

And  thy  crest,  as  the  breezes  play, 


8 


THE   GUERDON 


Lifts  now  to  the  sea's  blue  rim, 

And  now  to  the  far  blue  hills, 

The  ancient  home  of  thy  kin. 

So  wilt  thou  mount  and  expand 

When  me  and  all  of  my  age 

Thou  seest  no  more  in  thy  sweep. 

And,  it  may  be,  the  hundredth  year 

Shall  find  thee  towering  aloft 

When  we  have  long  been  dust. 

So  let  me  lie  at  rest, 

My  only  monvunent  thou, 

No  stone  to  bear  my  name 

Until  it  is  only  a  name! 

But  wave  thou  over  my  head. 

The  grace  of  thy  slender  limbs 

Etched  on  the  wintry  dawn, 

Thy  emerald  dome  a  bower 

Of  melody,  June  by  June, 

And  thyself  a  funeral  pyre 

For  a  god  each  Fall  renewed. 

While  the  hand  that  gave  thee  place 

Has  long  been  mingled  with  dust, 

And  the  dust  to  beauty  has  climbed 

In  stem  and  bud  and  leaf. 

To  a  life  that  is  one  with  thine, 

O  Maple,  thou  joyous  child 

Of  the  love  of  Earth  and  the  Sky! 


TO  A  LITTLE   GIRL 

^*^UT  of  a  miUion  stars 
lll^  Our  spirits  chose  this  earth 
^■^    To  be  their  home  in  time; 
And  out  of  a  million  souls. 
All  designed  for  love, 
Our  souls  choose  here  and  there 
One  to  make  all  their  own. 
What  such  a  springing  vine. 
Radiant  with  budding  bloom, 
As  thou,  should  find  to  choose 
In  a  shattered  trunk  like  me, 
I  shall  not  trouble  to  guess, 
Too  glad  to  be  thy  choice. 

O  summer  dawn,  far  flown 

To  gladden  a  wintry  eve, 

Sweet  child,  I  have  grown  too  wise 


To  ask  how  long  thy  love. 

Like  fragrance  outpoured,  and  glad 

In  outpouring,  shall  be  content 

To  waste  its  treasure  on  me. 

Thou  art  untaught  to  live 

Beyond  the  present,  and  I 

Will  unlearn  my  dangerous  wont 

To  question  the  future,  and  leave 

Sweet  love  in  its  golden  hour 

Assured  of  eternity. 

So,  dear,  give  me  thy  hand, 

And,  while  we  stroll  through  the  fields. 

With  the  eyes  of  a  thousand  flowers 

Upturned  for  approval  and  thanks 

For  their  beauty  and  fragrance  wrought. 

We  twain  will  shape  earth  anew, 

And  people  it  for  ourselves 

With  creatures  after  our  heart,  — 

Fairies,  giants,  dwarfs. 

Elves,  hobgobUns,  gnomes, 

Brave  knights  and  ladies  fair, 

Castles,  enchanted  woods,  — 

And  all  that  happens,  compel 

To  happen  the  way  we  want, 

And  just  in  the  nick  of  time; 

And,  above  all,  every  heart. 

Though  after  long  toil  and  pain. 

Shall  be  sure  to  find  its  own. 

We  will  leave  the  roses  their  thorns. 

But  will  make  their  fragrance  the  more. 

We  will  leave  the  sour  that  the  sweet 

May  be  better  tasted  and  prized. 

Indeed,  we  will  leave  the  world 

Much  as  it  is,  will  we  not? 

If  only  we  two  may  walk 

Forever,  hand  in  hand. 

Through  this  daisy-sprinkled  field. 

Yes,  dear,  I  believe  the  world 
And  all  that  is  in  it  were  made 
For  fairies,  and  surely  not 
The  fairies  for  the  world. 
I  for  one  am  glad 
They  let  me  live  in  their  world. 
Even  if  they  play  me  the  trick 
Of  keeping  out  of  sight. 
And  laughing  behind  my  back. 
It  is  much  more  charming  so 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ARTIST 


Than  it  would  be  to  Kve  in  a  world 

Grown-up,  where  no  fairies  were. 

I  had  rather  have  for  a  friend 

A  fairy  than  a  king; 

Because,  whom  the  fairies  love 

Children  love  too,  and  though 

They  may  grow  old  in  years, 

They  never  grow  old  at  heart, 

But  are  children  unto  the  end. 

Their  foreheads  never  lose 

The  brightness  from  heaven  brought. 

But  below  on  the  earth  they  live 

Somehow  in  heaven  still; 

And  when  they  leave  the  earth, 

'Tis  no  more  than  the  melting  of  mist 

In  the  sunbeams;  it  all  is  there, 

But  has  only  passed  from  our  sight. 

So,  whatever  the  years  may  bring 

Of  beauty  or  grace  or  power, 

Remember  to  keep  firm  grasp 

On  the  unseen  fairy  gold. 

Will  it  always  bring  happiness? 

Better  than  happiness,  lovel 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ARTIST 

IS  father  and  mother  we  knew. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  are  here. 
Our  playmates  once  and  now 
Our  neighbors;  we  know  them  all. 
But  him,  if  once  we  knew, 
We  know  no  more;  he  has  passed 
Out  of  ovir  narrow  sphere. 
And  returns  to  it  stranger  far 
Than  the  wanderer  summer  brings. 
Yet  he  is  strange,  not  strange 
The  soul  of  the  work  of  his  hands. 
That  soul  is  the  soul  of  us  all, 
Of  our  lives,  our  works  and  days, 
The  soul  of  our  weakness  and  strength, 
And  the  inmost  soul  of  our  land 
And  of  all  its  fruits,  whereof  we 
Would  fain  be  reckoned  the  crown. 
Must  he  needs  pass  out  of  our  sphere, 
To  see  our  life  as  it  is? 
Must  he  needs  fare  oversea. 
Study  in  Paris  and  Rome, 


View  the  art  of  the  world 
In  Europe's  galleries  hung. 
Learn  to  speak  strange  speech, 
Burn  under  Libyan  suns. 
Freeze  amid  Tibetan  snows 
On  the  roof  tree  of  the  world. 
To  understand  and  depict 
The  life  of  our  little  thorp? 

Yet  he  never  was  truly  of  us. 
And  how  among  us  he  came. 
This  bird-of-Paradise 
Fledged  in  our  Northern  croft, 
A  sheen  of  Tropic  flame 
Amid  our  dusk  and  dun, 
We  can  only  puzzle  and  guess. 
But  stranger  still  he  retmns. 
With  other  habits  and  speech. 
With  other  thoughts  and  desires, 
Than  of  old  were  his  and  ours. 
Though  he  knows  us  to  the  core. 
We  cannot  know  him;  our  life 
Is  only  a  dot  on  the  map 
Of  the  world  his  life  has  become. 
Yet,  after  all,  he  is  ours. 
His  mighty  world  has  grown 
On  a  stem  that  here  shot  up. 
AH  he  has  seen  and  done 
He  has  seen  and  done  as  the  child 
Of  these  vales  that  ope  to  the  sea, 
These  hills  that,  rounded  and  low. 
Remember  how  once,  snow-crowned. 
They  saw,  not  a  shoal  green  sea. 
But  the  blue  of  the  central  deep. 

I  too  am  a  child  of  these  vales; 
And  I  have  fared  farther  than  he. 
I  have  held  the  world  in  my  hand 
And  have  spumed  it  for  dizzier  flights 
Than  ever  Mercury  dared. 
As  he  from  oiu:  village  passed. 
So  I,  from  our  village  of  earth, 
Have  traversed  the  Universe, 
Yea!  passed  beyond  its  bounds 
To  the  Universe  of  Thought; 
Have  there  lived  citizen; 
The  speech  of  the  dwellers  there 
Have  I  learned,  and,  returning  here. 


lO 


THE   GUERDON 


I  am  more  unknown  than  a  stray 
From  Afric  or  Indian  wilds. 
Peace!  Peace!  we  are  children  both, 
Trying  to  mirror  God's  world 
Each  in  a  dusky  flake 
Of  mica  chipped  from  the  rock, 
Seeing  each  his  tiny  glimpse 
And  fancying  it  the  whole. 
When  all  the  broken  glints 
Of  a  myriad  seers  are  joined, 
Perchance  we  shall  see  the  whole;  — 
But,  haply  the  whole  is  more. 
In  this  Universe  of  Soul, 
Other  and  vastly  more, 
Than  the  sum  of  all  its  parts. 
Their  product,  not  their  sum. 


SPIRIT  PHOTOGRAPHS 

o  he  has  gone  to  his  rest, 
My  neighbor  of  many  years. 
The  lawyer,  keen  of  mind. 
Sturdy  of  will  and  work, 
And  strong  of  soul  to  bear 
The  rudest  buffets  of  fate. 
Far  from  fearing  death. 
He  hailed  its  coming  with  joy, 
For  with  all  his  heart  he  believed. 
With  all  his  mind  and  might. 
That  it  came  to  lead  him  forth 
Where  he  should  clasp  again 
The  darling  child  of  his  youth, 
And  the  wife  of  his  youth  and  age. 

Yet  his  buoyant  faith  was  the  fruit 
Of  a  cheap  and  barefaced  fraud, 
Such  as  in  mart  or  court 
He  had  been  first  to  scoff,  — 
Spirit  photographs! 
A  weak  and  silly  trap 
For  dull  and  ignorant  minds. 
How  caught  it  a  mind  hke  his? 
But,  for  once,  he  was  off  his  guard, 
And  his  heart,  enlisted,  veiled 
The  piercing  eyes  of  his  mind, 
And  gave  superstition  rein 
To  bear  him  whither  it  would; 


So  a  mountebank's  lie 
Bore  him  smiling  to  death. 

Shall  we  say  then,  Blessed  be  fraud! 

No,  and  forever,  no! 

Rather  than  trust  false  lights 

On  life's  uncharted  sea. 

Where  the  mists  forever  shroud 

Its  meeting  with  the  Beyond, 

Give  me  —  I  ask  no  more  — 

The  true  if  scanty  tale 

Which  Reason's  plummet  tells. 

And  the  log  of  day  to  day;  — 

Unless  I  may  be  of  those. 

The  blest,  illuminate, 

Whose  eyes,  immortal  of  range. 

Pierce  the  sable  of  death 

Even  as  the  azure  of  life. 


THE  RAILWAY  ACCIDENT 

/JH^NDER  my  willow  I  sat, 
QB    On  an  August  afternoon, 

In  the  shade  of  its  whispering  orb, 
As  a  maple's  round  and  dense. 
Far  off  in  silver  flashed 
The  smoke  of  the  coming  train. 
That  should  thunder  over  its  track 
Before  me  across  the  field. 
But  my  thought  was  away  from  earth, 
Out  of  space  and  time. 
Clenched  with  the  thought  of  him, 
The  God-intoxicate, 
Who  taught  that  the  will  of  man 
Its  only  freedom  finds 
In  obedience  to  the  law 
Of  its  being,  and  has  no  power 
To  stray  outside  its  bounds. 
Not  that  when  it  goes  right 
It  obeys  the  law,  and  wrong 
When  it  disobeys;  it  moves  — 
Here  the  roar  of  the  train 
Brought  back  my  thought  to  earth  — 
Even  as  j^onder  train, 
On  its  track  or  not  at  all. 

Was  it  a  prescience  of  thought, 
A  moment's  outrunning  of  Time 


THE   IMMIGRANT'S   FUNERAL 


II 


^ 


In  my  soul,  or  only  chance? 

For  scarce  had  I  pictured  the  shock 

Of  the  train  derailed,  when  a  thrill 

Shot  through  its  lithe,  swift  length, 

A  grinding  crash  smote  my  ears. 

One  car  staggered  out  of  the  line 

And  sank  aslant  in  the  sand; 

Then  all  the  mighty  mass 

Shuddering,  stopped  awry. 

Out  of  the  hush,  rose  a  groan, 

Then  screams,  and  forth  from  the  cars 

Came  pouring  their  human  freight. 

With  what  poor  speed  I  might, 

I  hurried  across  the  field 

To  the  scene  that  I  feared  was  of  death, 

Nor  far  astray  was  my  fear; 

For  stretched  on  the  bloody  grass. 

With  a  crushed  and  bleeding  leg, 

Lay  a  brakeman,  his  ashen  face 

Distorted  with  pain  and  dread. 

The  crowd  made  way  for  me. 

As  to  one  who  bore  the  mark 

Of  the  Brotherhood  of  Pain. 

I  took  the  sufferer's  hands, 

While  a  surgeon,  by  chance  on  the  train, 

Wrought,  with  rough  tools  fetched 

From  a  farmer's  work-bench,  to  save 

The  life  that  was  fleeting  fast; 

Wrought  without  drugs  to  still 

The  torture  of  knife  and  saw. 

At  last  the  torment  ceased. 

And  then  it  was  mine  to  do        ^ 

What  word  and  touch  might  avail 

To  make  the  spirit  supply 

The  body's  lack  of  strength. 

So  it  endured  for  an  hour. 

While  the  passengers  made  a  purse 

For  the  sufferer,  be  it  for  him 

Or  only  for  wife  and  child. 

Then  they  lounged  impatient  about 

Till  another  train  should  be  sent. 

At  last  it  came,  and  my  charge 

I  resigned  with  many  fears, 

That  were  founded  only  too  well, 

For  ere  he  had  reached  the  town 

And  the  arms  of  help  and  love, 

He  died. 


And  so  the  flower 
Which  had  struck  its  roots  into  earth 
Suddenly  burst  into  bloom 
In  the  life  beyond,  and  sloughed 
The  stem  by  which  alone 
It  was  known  to  our  earthly  sense. 
But  sometimes  it  seems  to  me. 
Who  have  been  uprooted  so  far 
That  I  feel  I  draw  less  from  earth 
Than  from  ether,  it  seems  to  me 
That  the  life  around  and  above 
Overflowing  into  our  lives 
Is  more  to  us,  hourly  more, 
Although  unrecognized. 
Than  this  of  brawn  and  health. 
Which  boasts  its  scantiness 
The  universal  whole. 


THE  IMMIGRANT'S  FUNERAL 

^jm^'SLKT  he  ever  wandered  here 
ill.  From  the  pale  skies  of  the  North, 
^"^    From  his  ruddy  Gothland  kin. 

Whose  speech  so  clung  to  his  lips, 

With  its  music  of  forest  bells, 

That  they  took  but  haltingly  ours,  — 

That  he  ever  came  among  us, 

EngUsh  in  name  and  speech. 

In  habit  and  prejudice, 

As  in  any  Midland  thorp, 

Here  in  our  unknown  town 

On  the  granite  coast  of  Maine,  — 

'Twas  not  the  quest  of  gold. 

Nor  the  Northman's  quest  of  the  sun, 

But  the  quest  of  learning.     So  here, 

A  student  in  our  schools. 

Albeit  older  than  most, 

A  laborer  in  our  fields. 

He  wrought,  and  won  our  regard, 

'Till  his  speech  and  ways  began 

To  blend  and  be  lost  in  ours. 

But  one  fact  he  reckoned  without, 
One  danger  had  not  foreseen. 
He  had  come  from  a  colder  air; 
And  something  in  our  own, 
Bred  by  oxir  lustier  sun, 


12 


THE   GUERDON 


Sapped  the  rugged  strength 

He  had  drawn  from  Berserk  sires. 

We  scarce  had  missed  him  from  school, 

When  we  learned  with  a  shock  of  pain 

That  death  already  had  set 

Its  mark  on  his  cheek  and  brow. 

The  little  that  friendship  might 

It  wrought  with  eager  haste, 

But  all  in  vain;   and  now 

A  few  short  weeks  have  brought 

This  tolling  of  the  bell 

This  gathering  of  young  and  old 

To  the  Immigrant's  funeral. 

Of  all  illusions  on  earth, 

The  strangest  is  after  fame. 

The  charm  of  living  fame 

Is  easy  to  understand; 

'Tis  a  man  leaning  over  a  pool 

Seeing  his  face  in  its  depths. 

But  the  thought  of  fame  after  death. 

To  one  who  has  missed  it  in  life, 

Is  to  lean  o'er  a  muddy  pool 

And  think:  It  is  roily  now, 

But,  when  I  am  gone  and  it  clears. 

Those  who  come  after  shall  see 

The  face  it  ought  now  to  reflect. 

The  image  to  him  who  has  gone, 

Even  though  it  were,  is  not; 

And,  if  by  a  miracle 

It  abides,  the  wonder  is  oxirs. 

Not  his  who  has  passed  away, 

And  cannot  know  it  abides. 

Yet,  if  memory  have  a  worth, 
How  many  toil  life-long 
To  win  it,  and  gain  far  less 
Than  this  wanderer  did  by  chance! 
Because  he  came  from  afar, 
Because  he  was  not  like  us, 
Because  untimely  he  died. 
We  therefore  remember  him; 
And  three-score  years  from  now 
Grey-haired  ancients  will  point 
To  the  hollow  that  marks  his  grave, 
And  say,  I  knew  him  in  life, 
And  tell  his  story  afresh. 
What  more  do  conquerors  gain? 


To  me  appeals  not  fame, 

Living  or  after  death. 

Fame  is  only  for  them 

Who  live  in  time.    As  for  me, 

Alive  in  eternity, 

The  heaven  that  spans  life's  pool, 

I  need  no  reflex  of  time,  — 

No  more  than  he  needs  now. 

For  whom  the  church  bells  toll  — 

To  teach  me  that  I  live. 


THE  FULFILMENT 

(^(jjrt/^HEN  in  the  frosty  breath 
fl  i|~|    Of  the  interstellar  abyss 
^^^^^  A  swirl  began  to  form, 
Outspake  the  soul  of  the  world 
To  the  soul  of  the  universe: 
Is  this  my  life  foretold. 
Is  this  the  Fulfilment  to  be? 
But  the  other  answered:  Wait! 
The  beginning  only  is  this. 
When  the  whirling  had  advanced 
Till  the  whole  as  one  huge  disc 
On  its  cloudy  axle  swung, 
Again  the  question  came, 
And  again  the  answer:  Wait! 
Then  slowly  the  center  shrank. 
Leaving  a  slender  rim. 
And  again  it  shrank,  and  again, 
Till  the  mass  revolved,  not  as  one, 
But  in  rings  of  cloud  and  void. 
Then  out  of  the  center  came 
A  wonder  which  was  Light, 
And  the  radiance  touched  the  rings 
Each  with  its  dawning  hue. 
Then  the  world-soul  cried:  At  last 
The  Fulfilment  is  at  hand. 
But  the  greater  said:  Not  so! 
Then,  one  after  one,  the  rings. 
Breaking,  roUed  into  orbs, 
That  round  the  central  light. 
Where  once  the  rings  had  whirled. 
Wheeled  in  their  circling  dance. 
Each  with  its  flamelet  crowned. 
Then  the  world-soul  cried:  Enough! 
My  being  is  sated  and  thrilled. 


LIFE'S   HERO 


13 


But  the  universal  soul, 

Smiling,  answered:  Wait! 

Then  shrank  the  central  orb. 

And  the  circling  cressets  paled. 

The  world-soul  gazed  with  rue. 

But  the  other  bade  it  look 

On  the  third  of  the  lesser  orbs. 

Already  its  Ught  was  gone, 

And  forever  half  in  night 

It  rollttl  through  the  central  glow. 

But,  lo!  from  pole  to  pole, 

It  was  bathed  in  a  silver  flood. 

It  was  mantled  with  living  green. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  world  rejoiced 

And  cried:  I  see;  'twas  for  this, 

The  crown  of  their  long  desire. 

That  out  of  the  primal  mist 

The  circling  orbs  were  whirled. 

But  the  other  answered:  Wait! 

Then  above  the  green  outflashed 

Wings  of  a  mjoriad  dyes. 

And  above  their  splendor,  song. 

Cried  the  world-soul:  This  is  the  end! 

But  the  greater  answered:  Look! 

Then  mighty  strengths  appeared. 

Lording  with  bulk  and  brawn 

O'^  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 

Then  upon  either  pole 

Fell  a  touch  from  the  hand  of  frost, 

And  it  widened  and  sunward  spread. 

The  verdurous  mantle  shrank. 

And  shrank  the  mighty  strengths. 

Then  the  world-soul  cried:  Alas! 

The  end  even  now  begins. 

And  yet  the  Fulfilment  waits. 

But  its  leader  answered:  Hark! 

And  up  from  the  forest's  depths, 

From  arms  of  weakness  arose 

Out  of  lips  of  weakness  a  cry. 

And  the  soul  of  the  universe 

To  the  wondering  world-soul  spake: 

Lo!  the  Fulfilment  is  here. 


LIFE'S  HERO 

-jBTj^jTM^HO  is  Life's  hero?    He 
if  If  T^ Who  braves  the  cataract's  whirl 
At  the  call  of  weakness  for  help. 
Who  treads  the  haunts  of  the  pest, 
Who  toils  over  arctic  ice, 
Who  breasts  an  unknown  sea. 
Its  demons,  its  gxilfs  of  death. 
Who  faces  taunt  and  sHght 
For  the  sake  of  a  noble  cause,  — 
Heroes  all,  who  make  Earth 
The  better  that  they  have  dared. 

But  a  greater  hero  I  know. 
'Tis  he,  who  rending  away 
All  tendrils  of  faith  and  trust, 
Fears  not  to  set  himself 
Against  God's  universe. 
To  eye  it,  question  it, 
Test  its  heart  by  its  deeds, 
And  finally  decide 
If  it  be  worthy  or  not 
For  him  to  trust  and  love. 
This  is  the  greatest  feat. 
So  great  that  its  doer  becomes 
An  antitheos,  the  man 
Alone  of  all  mankind 
Whose  love  or  hate  can  be 
Worthy  of  God's  regard. 

No  such  hero  am  I. 

If  ever  I  could  have  been  once, 

I  have  lost  forever  the  power. 

Nor  now  regret  the  loss. 

Mine  is  too  deep  a  sense 

Of  the  universal  good 

That  I  can  impartially  judge 

Betwixt  his  maker  and  man. 

So  much  God's  man  am  I 

That  if  I  knew  his  good 

Involved  my  ill,  as  indeed, 

I  believe  it  may,  I  should  feel 

That  still  it  was  better  so, 

Better  even  for  me. 

As  having  a  larger  share 

In  God  than  in  myself. 


14 


THE  GUERDON 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  DEATH 

TILL,  though  the  heart  accepts, 
|The  mind  refuses  to  bow. 
To  see  as  well  as  to  feel 
It  demands;  and,  if  all  is  well 
In  the  universe  of  God, 
Then  let  the  good  stand  forth 
Solid  and  firm,  and  the  ill 
Be  dearly  revealed  its  shade. 
Devoid  of  substance  and  strength. 
But,  look!  the  mind  exclaims. 
Whose  is  the  chariot 
That  scours  forever  the  earth. 
Whose  are  the  trampling  steeds, 
The  grinding  wheels,  and  the  scythes 
From  the  axles  cruelly  curved, 
Whose,  indeed,  but  Death's? 
He  it  is  wields  the  lash, 
And  he  it  is  who  laughs 
At  the  terror  that  runs  before 
And  the  devastation  behind. 
The  world  is  belted  and  bound 
By  his  bloody  tracks;  itself 
Is  but  his  playground  and  park, 
Its  children  merely  his  prey. 

But  whom  bears  Death  behind? 

Cries  the  heart.    Behold,  and  say 

Who  sits  in  the  chariot  aloft 

And  gives  the  word  of  command? 

You  call  it  the  chariot  of  Death, 

But  only  the  driver  is  he. 

The  servant,  the  slave,  the  tool, 

Of  him  whose  own  it  is. 

And  he  is  —  Progress.    The  earth 

Is  another  and  nobler  earth 

Wherever  his  wheels  have  crushed, 

Wherever  his  scythes  have  mown. 

And  ever  out  of  his  track 

Rises  a  grander  life; 

So  that  the  course  of  Death 

Appears  his  punishment 

And  not  his  triumph.    The  fruit 

Is  his  who  masters  death; 

And  he  gathers  it  for  the  weal 

Not  of  Death  but  of  Life. 

Yea,  but,  the  mind  responds, 


Why  should  not  Life  himself 
Be  his  own  charioteer? 
Why  slay  that  Life  may  prevail? 
Why  sin  that  good  may  be  born? 

But  seest  thou  not,  says  the  hearty 
Seest  thou  not  that  Death 
Has  power  but  over  his  kind? 
It  is  only  death  that  he  slays; 
He  holds  no  power  over  life. 
It  is  only  the  death  amid  life 
That  he  can  take  to  himself. 
And  again  and  yet  again 
The  lesser  death  that  remains. 
Over  life  he  has  no  power. 
And  when  at  last  he  has  slain 
All  that  belongs  to  death 
By  primal  heritage 
From  chaos  and  ancient  night. 
Whence  life  and  light  were  born^. 
Then  shall  he  slay  himself. 
And  Progress,  reaching  its  goal, 
Shall  mount  its  eternal  throne 
And  sit  revealed  as  God. 


GOD'S  LAMPLIGHTERS  OF  SOULS^ 

OMETIMES  in  my  weakness  I  think  — • 
Be  it  the  ebb's  last  wave 
Or  the  first  of  retxirning  strength  — 

That  I  have  in  myself  the  power 

To  create,  myself  to  dart 

Winged  words  that  shall  blaze 

From  their  very  speed,  nor  flame 

A  barren  wonder  and  show, 

But,  kindling  the  hearts  of  men, 

Shall  age  to  age  transmit 

The  fire  that  burns  in  my  heart,  — 

To  be  poet,  to  be  in  God's  world 

His  lamplighter  of  souls. 

Then  my  sober  sense  returns. 

And  I  know  that  I  mistook 

For  the  poet's  God-given  fire 

Some  poet's  enkindling  touch. 

No,  let  me  be  content 

With  the  happier,  humbler  lot 


THE   DEATH   AND    BIRTH   OF   A   GOD 


IS 


Of  tending  the  sacred  fire, 
Of  making  it  live  in  my  heart, 
Of  raying  its  vital  warmth. 
Unto  some  God  gives  the  power 
To  create,  unto  some  to  enjoy; 
Unto  those  the  grander  doom, 
Unto  these  the  more  enviable. 
So  let  me  be  content  — 
Rather  let  me  rejoice  — 
That  his  love  bestowed  on  me, 
Not  the  gift  to  copy  his  work, 
But  to  see  it  and  find  it  good; 
Not  to  rival  the  copyists, 
But  to  see  and  applaud  their  work, 
And  rejoice  in  their  gift  divine. 

Through  all  the  portals  of  sense 
Troop  the  heralds  of  God's  grace; 
Not  mine  to  bring  their  report; 
'Tis  enough  for  me  to  stand  by 
And  applaud  the  message  brought. 
For  a  single  herald  can  serve 
Hundreds  of  listeners; 
And  when  the  heralds  are  sent. 
The  heralds  with  signet  and  wand, 
Other  our  services  are, 
Each  his  own,  and  all 
In  God's  true-seeing  eye, 
Equal  in  honor  and  worth. 


THE  DEATH  AND   BIRTH  OF  A  GOD 

^^■■^HE  death  and  birth  of  an  age 
4f|v  Are  the  death  and  birth  of  a  God. 
^"^   The  generations  of  men, 

Like  the  generations  of  leaves, 

Follow  each  upon  each, 

Seemingly  without  end. 

But  at  last  the  tree  itself 

Falls,  and  the  leaves  that  toss 

Are  burgeon  of  other  boughs. 

So  the  generations  of  men 

Follow  so  long  in  line 

That  the  memory  of  none 

Goes  backward  to  the  time 


When  any  faith  was  held. 
Any  God  was  adored. 
Save  only  those  whereof  each 
Has  learned  at  his  mother's  knee. 

But  behind  all  trees  and  Gods 

Are  working  growth  and  decay; 

And  a  generation  comes 

Which  in  its  own  time  sees 

The  passing  of  its  God, 

The  advent  of  a  new. 

Then  life,  which  had  lost  its  hope. 

And  bitter  and  brackish  had  grown 

In  the  shrinking  of  its  tide, 

That  grey  and  sad  had  become 

In  the  twilight  of  its  faith, 

Suddenly  flushes  with  hope. 

Dawns  into  youth,  and  swells 

Full-flooded  with  sweetness  and  strength. 

Or,  it  may  be,  between  the  death 

Of  the  old  God  and  birth  of  the  new, 

A  generation  or  more 

Must  pass  in  the  Night  of  the  Gods. 

It  never  knew  the  old. 

Or  only  as  memory, 

Never  as  living  force; 

And  it  cannot  foresee  the  new. 

Nor  know  if  the  new  shall  be. 

That  generation  is  mine, 

A  barren  rock  between 

Two  flowering  meadows,  a  hush, 

Deathlike  and  dread,  between 

Two  bursts  of  jubilant  song. 

But  at  least  the  grievous  time 

Holds  a  reward  for  those 

Whose  hearts  in  silence  feel 

The  steps  of  the  coming  God 

Before  from  his  viewless  cloud 

He  bodies  himself  to  men. 

Yea,  great  is  their  reward 

Whose  faith  has  vanquished  night. 

Who,  meeting  amid  the  gloom, 

With  sacred  joy  confer. 

And  gaze  together  aloft, 

Wondering  in  what  guise 

And  when  their  God  shall  appear. 


i6 


THE  GUERDON 


DRAGGING  THE  POND 

^I^NE  autumn  afternoon 

\§fy  Through  the  village  a  rumor  ran  - 

A  whisper  at  first  and  at  last 
An  uproar  —  that  Imogen, 
The  loveliest  of  our  girls, 
Sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
Shrinking,  yet  quick  of  mind, 
The  soul  of  purity. 
Had  drowned  herself  in  the  pond. 
There  seemed  no  question  of  chance, 
For  her  steps  led  down  to  the  brink, 
Her  hat  was  tied  to  a  bough. 
And  on  it  was  pinned:  Good-bye! 
Forget  me;  you  cannot  forgive. 
Imogen. 

On  the  shore 
Her  mother  paced  up  and  down, 
Stretching  her  hands  to  the  pond, 
Demanding  back  her  child. 
And  calling  on  us  for  help. 
Hope  we  felt  there  was  not; 
But,  to  do  what  could  be  done. 
What  must  be  done  before 
The  mother's  cry  could  be  stilled, 
Four  of  us  took  a  boat. 
Two  to  row  and  one 
To  manage  the  dreadful  drag, 
While  my  part  was  to  steer. 

It  was  early  evening  now. 

The  light  of  the  moon  fell  slant 

On  the  emptiness  of  the  pond. 

But  it  gave  us  light  enough, 

More  than  enough  for  our  fears. 

For  an  hovir  and  another  hour 

We  toiled;  the  moon  went  down, 

And  the  flash  of  our  oars  gleamed  white 

As  the  face  we  feared  to  see. 

At  every  halt  of  the  drag 

On  rock  or  sunken  log. 

Our  hearts  within  stood  still. 

Then  a  call  came  out  of  the  dark: 

Come  ashore;  she  is  found. 

Found  1  but  alive  or  dead? 
We  questioned,  soon  to  know. 


They  told  us  that  Imogen 

Had  been  seen  that  afternoon, 

In  the  next  town,  taking  the  train 

For  the  city;  with  her  went 

A  salesman  but  too  well  known. 

Glib  and  persuasive  of  tongue. 

Showily  dressed,  polite, 

Attentive  to  women,  and  masked 

With  a  semblance  of  chivalry, 

To  which  his  words  before  men 

Gave  doubly  damned  the  lie. 

Her  father  already  had  gone 

To  catch  the  flying  express 

In  anxious  pursuit;  for  him 

There  was  something  to  do;  but,  at  home. 

The  mother  sat  in  her  chair. 

Older  by  many  years. 

Swaying  forward  and  back 

And  moaning:  Had  she  but  died! 

Would  God  she  lay  dead  at  my  feet! 


THE  ROMAN  FLAMEN 

OME  said  he  was  marked  from  birth 
For  the  flamen's  holy  task. 
Such  reverence  for  sacred  things 

He  ever  showed,  such  bent 

For  brooding  on  human  life. 

On  death  and  what  follows  death. 

And  the  meaning  and  purpose  of  all. 

Others,  the  worldings,  said, 

Between  a  sneer  and  a  sigh: 

Not  so!    It  is  plain  to  see 

He  is  not  of  us,  but  as  plain 

He  is  also  not  of  you. 

He  is  too  earnest,  and  rates 

Life  at  too  great  a  worth 

Either  to  throw  it  away 

Or  to  barter  it  with  the  Gods 

For  a  better  life  to  come. 

He  thinks  in  his  innocence 

To  be  flamen  means  to  have  scope 

To  work  out  his  heart's  desire 

In  the  welfare  of  other  men. 

He  is  bound  to  make  the  attempt; 

The  outcome  will  be  what  it  shall. 


STRONGER  THAN  LIFE 


17 


So  he  took  up  his  task 

And  wrought.    Ten  years  he  toiled, 

Giving  daily  his  life  for  men, 

And  questioning  not  the  lore 

That  he  took  and  taught  for  the  truth. 

Then  a  light  appeared  in  the  east, 

And  a  rumor  ran  through  the  world 

Of  the  Crucified,  who  had  risen 

From  death  into  deathless  life. 

Proclaiming  salvation  to  men 

From  death  and  the  fear  of  death 

By  living  as  He  had  hved. 

One  with  the  God  over  all, 

Whom  He  taught  men  to  name 

Our  Father. 

Most  men  scofifed, 
Or  laughed  at  the  whole  as  a  jest. 
But  the  reverent  called  on  the  law 
To  stamp  out  the  blasphemy. 
The  reverent,  led  by  their  priests, 
All  but  the  flamen,  who,  lost 
To  reverence,  reason,  and  grace. 
Dared  to  proclaim:  Whom  we 
Under  various  forms  and  names 
Have  worshipped  as  the  divine. 
Behold  this  day  revealed! 
Yea,  at  the  altar  he  stood 
And  published  this  heresy. 
Did  any  believe  him?    Not  one. 
They  tore  oflF  his  fiamen's  robe 
And  drove  him  with  sticks  and  stones 
From  the  altar  he  had  profaned. 
In  vain  he  sought  to  return. 
Pleading,  defending;  in  vain 
He  showed  the  fruits  of  his  life 
And  the  fruits  of  his  fellows'  Uves, 
Justice,  temperance,  love; 
The  world  would  have  none  of  him. 

Then  his  mind  began  to  give  way  — 

The  judgment  of  Jove,  men  said  — 

Speech  faUed  his  lips  of  fire 

And  the  thought  behind  the  speech. 

Babbling  at  last,  like  a  child. 

He  was  led  away  from  men's  sight, 

And  he  died  already  forgot 


By  those  who  had  known  his  prime. 

But  the  misbelieving  few 

Remembered  him;  and  now, 

After  two  thousand  years. 

He  is  worshipped  as  a  saint, 

With  a  day  in  the  calendar, 

And  the  children  of  those  who  scoffed 

Are  proud  to  bear  his  name. 


What  are  the  words  I  have  said? 

No  Roman  flamen  was  he  — 

No  flamen  wrought  ever  so, 

Bore  such  a  burden  of  souls  — 

But  the  friend  of  my  youth,  and  he  died 

Only  today.    The  rest 

Is  true,  or  will  be  true. 


STRONGER  THAN  LIFE 

^ou  do  not  love  this  child, 
This  little  innocent, 
Uplifting  to  yoiu:  face 

Her  mother's  very  eyes? 

No!  for  she  stole  away 

My  Anna  from  me.    No! 

Let  me  never  see  her  again! 


A  purblind  god  is  Love, 

Or  lazy,  or  mischievous; 

At  least,  among  all  the  pairs 

That  he  mates  on  earth,  how  few 

Image  the  perfect  love! 

But  in  George  and  Anna  we  saw. 

With  a  glow  at  the  heart,  that  Love 

Had  here  wrought  his  perfect  work. 

Not  merely  for  them  but  for  us 

The  old  world  was  new-born. 

When  we  saw  them  side  by  side 

Earth  seemed  no  longer  a  place 

For  hate  and  wrong  and  sin. 

Failure  and  tears,  but  a  place 

Where  the  rational,  natural 

Business  of  every  one 

Was  to  love  and  be  loved  in  turn. 


THE   GUERDON 


It  was  good  to  be  living  then; 
And  one  who  thought  could  see 
That  it  mattered  not  so  much 
On  whom  the  blessing  fell 
As  that  it  fell,  for  its  glow 
Was  diffused  on  all  around. 
By  and  by  their  joy 
Gave  promise  that  ere  long 
It  should  receive  its  crown. 
Then,  while  we  waited  all 
In  glad  expectance,  there  feU 
The  dreadful  news  that  the  life 
Born  of  their  love  had  come 
At  the  cost  of  the  mother's  life. 
So,  when  they  showed  him  his  child, 
Thinking  the  silent  plea 
Of  its  beauty  and  helplessness 
Might  win  his  heart  from  its  grief, 
He  tmned  away  and  refused 
Ever  to  see  it  more. 


Time,  which  heals  all  griefs, 

Will  heal  even  his,  we  said. 

But  idly,  not  knowing  him. 

One  October  afternoon. 

When  out  of  frost  and  fire 

Flamed  beauty  by  summer  unguessed. 

He  went  with  a  friend  to  hunt, 

A  friend  who  hoped  that  the  air 

And  the  sport  might  change  his  mood. 

But  the  friend  returned  alone. 

To  tell  the  terrible  tale 

Of  the  accident  that  had  slain 

His  companion.    Then  we  knew, 

Though  we  spoke  it  with  bated  breath. 

That  his  love  had  been  stronger  than  life. 

And,  when  on  a  sudden  he  saw 

A  portal  ready  to  ope 

Into  the  world  beyond 

Whither  his  Anna  had  passed, 

He  had  dashed  it  open  wide. 


This  tale  of  love,  when  the  woods, 
Under  October's  gold, 
Are  red  with  the  blood  of  the  year. 
Is  the  tale  they  tell  to  me. 


DAWN  OR  DUSK? 

mNDER  a  cold  grey  light 
Our  shivering  instant  we  flit. 
Poor  motes!  and  then  are  gone. 
Not  long  enough  we  abide 
To  be  sure  of  the  low-hung  gleam 
Whether  it  waxes  or  wanes. 
Is  herald  of  dawn  or  of  dusk. 
Could  we  compare  the  light 
That  our  farthest  sires  beheld 
With  the  seeming-changeless  glow 
That  is  light  of  the  world  we  share. 
Could  we  compare  them  and  see 
Which  is  more  and  which  less. 
We  might  be  sure,  but,  alas! 
We  cannot  see  with  their  eyes. 
And  the  witness  they  bear  is  twain. 
Oh!  were  there  only  an  art 
To  tell  the  east  from  the  west! 
But  we  know  not  whither  we  face, 
Toward  the  east  of  a  dawn  delayed. 
Toward  the  west  of  gathering  dark. 
Heaven  grants  us  no  sign, 
And  Earth,  if  it  hearken,  is  dumb. 

Say  not  that  it  matters  not. 

So  short  is  our  moment  of  life. 

Whether  the  coming  change 

Be  toward  the  day  or  the  night, 

That  only  our  far-off  sons 

And  not  ourselves  it  concerns. 

Can  it  be  to  us  little  care 

If  we  are  children  of  light 

Or  of  darkness;  whether  our  world 

Lies  in  the  hollowed  hand 

Of  the  Lord  of  Life  or  of  Death; 

That  the  being  we  transmit 

Is  a  glorious  heritage. 

Or  only  a  loss  and  reproach? 

But,  of  one  thing  I  am  sure. 

If  our  Lord  be  the  Lord  of  Life, 

He  would  never  have  set  us  a  task. 

Given  us  a  problem  to  solve, 

Beyond  our  powers;  and  my  faith 

Tells  me  that  someone  some  day 

Shall  discover  a  mystic  power 

Hiding  in  veins  of  the  earth, 


DREAMS   OF   STRENGTH  IN  WEAKNESS 


19 


That  shall  tell  us  east  from  west, 
And  settle  once  for  all 
Whether  we  face  the  dawn 
As  far-off  ancestors 
Of  the  glorious  children  of  Day, 
Or  whether,  nearing  the  end 
Of  a  djdng  race,  we  leave 
To  our  children  less  and  less 
Of  living  light  and  warmth,  — 
And  God  is  not  in  his  world. 
Or  has  left  it,  and  in  his  place 
The  power  that  is  all  He  is  not. 
The  principle  that  destroys 
Even  now  is  ascending  His  throne. 

But  a  whisper  has  come  to  me 
That  even  so  we  can  choose, 
And  even  in  the  Devil's  world 
Need  not  be  the  Devil's  men. 
That  ours  is  the  wondrous  lot, 
The  startling  privilege, 
To  be,  in  a  world  of  doubt. 
Or  a  world  of  evil  confessed. 
By  our  own  triumphant  choice 
The  children  of  God.    And  so. 
Though  it  matters  whether  our  light 
Be^of  the  dawn  or  the  dusk, 
Its  import  is  not  supreme. 
Yea,  greater  worth  may  we  win 
Who  choose  in  the  blindness  of  doubt 
That,  whether  the  world  we  see 
Be  of  the  Light  or  the  Dark, 
We  are  the  children  of  Light, 
On  whom  the  Dark  has  no  power, 
For  whom  the  Night  is  as  Day. 


DREAMS  OF  STRENGTH  IN  WEAKNESS 


eVER  since  that  morn  when  I 
Twenty  long  years  ago. 
To  weakness,  powerlessness, 
My  waking  seK  has  known 
But  all  too  well  its  plight. 
Not  so  my  slumbering  self. 
The  doer  of  my  dreams. 
That  self  is  always  strong. 
And  seems  to  take  delight, 


woke, 


More  than  in  years  of  health, 
In  deeds  of  daring  and  toil. 

Again  o'er  winter  snows, 

A  dozen  glowing  miles. 

O'er  wooded  hills,  down  dales, 

I  chase  the  crafty  fox; 

Or  over  the  starlit  ice, 

On  ringing  skates  I  fly, 

Outspeeding  aU  my  mates, 

Leaving  woods  and  hills  behind. 

All  but  the  following  stars; 

Or  at  sea  in  a  fishing  smack, 

Mid  the  equinoctial's  roar, 

I  grasp  the  tiller  alone. 

While  the  waves  are  torn  to  smoke; 

Or  on  the  playground  again 

I  drive  the  whirling  ball 

Far  over  the  fielders'  heads, 

And  speed  round  the  bases  home. 

Such  were  my  dreams  for  years; 

But  now  they  have  changed  their  type. 

1  now  strain  other  powers 

In  that  twilight  world  of  sleep. 

'Tis  the  mind  I  am  using  now, 

The  voice  before  questioning  crowds. 

The  pen,  for  a  million  to  read. 

I,  who  can  hardly  stand. 

Am  grappling  with  the  world, 

Hammering  the  stubborn  thought 

On  the  anvil  of  the  mind; 

And  all  in  the  eyes  of  men. 

And  finding  it  nothing  strange. 

Here  is  a  problem  to  solve: 

Why  should  my  slumbering  self 

Suddenly  take  this  turn? 

Is  it  self-assertion  of  powers. 

That  are  robbed  of  their  rightful  scope, 

In  the  one  world  where  they  can  act? 

Or  can  it  be  prophecy 

Of  deeds  I  am  yet  to  do? 

O  veriest  dream  of  all! 
Dreams  are  true  but  in  dreams. 
O  Philoctetes,  here 
Our  fates  part  company; 
Thine  to  take  up  thy  life 


20 


THE   GUERDON 


Even  where  it  was  broken  off, 
And  carry  it  high  and  far 
Into  fields  of  glorious  deeds, 
Into  honors  and  rich  rewards. 
More  than  thy  youth  foresaw. 
But  of  thee  the  world  had  need, 
Sole  hope  of  thy  land  wert  thou. 
Yea,  Heaven  itself  stooped  down. 
And  healed  thee  by  miracle 
To  do  thine  only  work. 
O  Philoctetes,  thy  years 
Of  weakness  were  only  ten; 
Mine  have  been  twenty.    Ah!  me. 
Long  since  parted  our  fates! 


LOVE'S  EXILE 

y^Bf^HE  ground  I  thought  so  firm 
il|.Has  crvmibled  beneath  my  feet, 
^"^And  now  I  no  longer  go 

With  face  upturned  to  the  sky. 

Communing  with  sun  and  stars, 

But  threading  hollow  ways. 

Underground,  sunless,  dark. 

And  lighted  only  by  pale 

Phosphoric  gleams,  which  flit, 

Aimless,  lost,  as  I. 

For  at  last  I  know  my  life 

Robbed  of  life's  chief  prize. 

Its  consmnmation  and  crown. 

No  love  of  one  for  all. 

No  love  for  truth  or  right 

Or  beauty  can  ever  fill 

The  place  of  the  love  for  one 

And  the  love  by  one  returned. 

This  my  life  has  lost, 

Be  it  by  fate  or  fault. 

O  little  mother,  who  died 

In  my  boyhood,  but  thrice  my  age, 

And  younger  than  I  am  now. 

In  thy  life  was  no  room  for  thought, 

But  only  for  love  and  its  deeds. 

How  richer  far  than  mine 

Was  thy  life  in  its  scanty  span! 

While  I  have  been  grasping  at  stars 


Through  my  fingers  have  slipped  unmarked 
The  golden  sands  of  love. 

Had  I  not  been  born  for  love, 

I  had  never  felt  my  loss. 

My  cup  had  stood  full-brimmed, 

Being  shallow;  Love  could  not  have  poured, 

Because  there  had  been  no  room. 

But  my  cup  is  still  at  ebb, 

And  Love  has  passed  me  by. 

Whatever  other  worlds 

May  bestow,  of  this  be  sure. 

They  never  can  give  what  I  miss. 

Earthly  love  on  this  earth. 

What  can  I  do?  —  Endure! 

It  is  nothing,  I  know,  but  at  least 

It  is  not  to  yield,  not  to  play 

A  coward's  part  in  the  face 

Of  the  myriads  whose  doom  I  share. 

I  can  endure  to  the  end,  — 

For  not  so  long  will  it  be  — 

Wondering  at  my  doom. 

And  wondering  if  the  law 

Of  eternal  balance  can  reach 

So  deep  into  human  fate. 

As,  here  or  anywhere. 

To  a  heart  that  for  love  was  born,  ^ 

To  make  good  the  loss  of  love. 

So,  in  these  underground  ways. 
Because  it  is  I  who  grope 
And  not  my  fellows  alone, 
My  faith  has  shrunk  to  an  If! 
But  time,  at  least  give  me  time! 
Or  must  eternity  join 
In  solving  a  riddle  like  this? 


WADING  UNDER  THE  BRIDGE 

'mfg-  AST  night  renewed  the  dream 

^n.  That  I  had  long  years  ago 

^^  When  I  sank  in  the  clutch  of  the  frost, 

A-swoon  on  the  wintry  .shore. 

Was  it  because  in  the  day 

I  had  wandered  down  to  the  bridge, 

And  peered  through  the  chilly  bore 

I  had  traversed  in  daring  and  dread 


IN   THE  HOSPITAL 


21 


As  a  boy,  and  traversed  again 

In  the  icy  dream  of  my  swoon? 

But  this  was  the  dream  that  retvirned, 

Only  with  newer  forms 

And  voices  at  its  close. 

I  was  coming  home  from  school, 

A  child  with  books  and  slate; 

When  I  came  in  sight  of  the  bridge 

I  remembered  the  morning's  taunt 

That  I  durst  not  wade  its  length, 

Under  the  granite  vault 

And  the  vast  embankment  above. 

O'er  which  went  thundering  the  trains. 

Barefoot  and  scantily  clad, 

For  this  was  in  summer's  heat, 

I  was  ready  on  my  resolve 

To  dare  the  grisly  attempt. 

Into  the  stream  I  stepped. 

Where  it  entered  the  shadowy  arch; 

The  chill  of  the  wave  and  the  air 

Smote  on  me  both  at  once. 

Far  ahead  I  saw. 

Beyond  the  dark  and  the  chill, 

A  narrow  ring  of  light. 

My  dared  and  distant  goal. 

The  walls  were  oozy- wet; 

Here  and  there  from  the  roof 

Blunt,  white  stalactites  hung. 

Ghostly,  corpse-like  things. 

That  made  me  shudder  and  look 

To  see  if  my  exit  were  free, 

As  if  the  vault  were  a  tomb. 

How  the  chill  of  the  shallow  stream 

I  was  wading  mid-leg  deep 

Shot  upward  to  my  heart! 

I  stole  a  backward  glance: 

The  openings  were  equal  now; 

I  was  half-way  through  the  bore. 

Larger  and  brighter  grew 

The  welcome  arch  in  front; 

And  into  the  hollow  roar 

Of  winds  and  waves  in  the  vault. 

Which  seemed  to  my  childish  sense 

To  be  gathered  about  my  head, 

There  came  the  sweeter  sound 

Of  laughter  and  merry  shouts. 

Which  grew  with  the  growing  arch, 


With  the  brightening  of  the  vault. 

At  last  from  under  the  stones 

I  stepped,  with  a  gasp  of  relief, 

Into  the  golden  sun  — 

Was  it  ever  so  golden  before?  — 

Under  the  infinite  dome 

Of  the  sapphire  summer  sky, 

And  before  me  on  the  bank 

My  playmates,  a  joyous  band, 

Were  gathered;  but  only  those  — 

Yet  it  seemed  to  me  not  strange  — 

Who  earlier  or  later  had  passed 

Out  of  life  and  mortal  ken. 

How  many  tears  they  had  cost! 

How  foolish  had  been  the  tears! 

For  were  they  not  all  alive, 

And  ninning  to  greet  me  now? 

Then  as  I  sought  the  shore, 

I  saw  beyond  them  a  group 

Of  their  elders;  among  them  one 

Was  hastening  to  meet  me;  her  face, 

A  beaming  splendor  of  love,  — 

My  mother's!    Forward  I  sprang 

To  meet  her;  but  a  voice 

Cried:  It  is  not  yet  time! 

And  I  felt  myself  caught  in  the  grasp 

Of  a  mighty  hand;  and  then 

I  was  back  on  the  other  side. 

And,  still  compelled  by  the  hand, 

I  bent  for  my  books  and  slate, — 

And  I  woke. 

Is  it  not  yet  time? 
Is  there  something  for  me  to  do, 
Which  has  waited  all  these  years? 
Of  all  the  heart's  restraints 
What  is  so  hard  to  bear 
As  the  baffling  veil  that  hides 
To-morrow  from  to-day? 

IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

^qyGAiN  within  these  walls, 

^I    Whereout  I  passed  aglow, 

^"^  New-born  to  the  life  of  Mind! 

Long  ago  in  years. 

That  hour  was  ages  ago 

In  thronging  harvests  of  thought. 


22 


THE   GUERDON 


But  a  few  short  months  at  the  most, 

I  said,  and  the  fiery  flame 

Of  the  lamp  of  my  thought  will  consume 

The  wreck  that  upbears  its  glow. 

I  had  never  dreamed  to  outlive 

My  delight  in  the  gains  of  thought, 

Nor  indeed  that  it  could  be  outlived. 

Nor  had  I  outUved  it,  but  found 

That  it  sated  not  all  my  soul. 

That  behind  it  upgrew  a  will 

Hungering  and  struggling  to  do, 

A  will  that,  caged  and  J^ound 

In  weakness,  I  could  not  appease, 

A  will  that  was  also  to  love, 

Which  darkened  my  sky  till  the  cloud 

That  should  have  watered  life's  field 

Seemed  ready  in  ruin  to  burst. 

It  wrung  from  my  lips  the  cry: 

This  golden  fruit  of  Thought 

They  gave  me  to  balance  my  loss, 

Is  only  an  empty  rind! 

Why  not  throw  all  away, 

Life  and  Thought  and  Pain, 

And  take  your  chance  with  the  Void, 

Rather  than  live  bemocked 

By  thought  and  impotence? 

Was  I  in  my  world  of  Mind 

Doomed  after  all  to  live 

Cut  off  from  life's  chief  end, 

Which  thousands  of  years  ago 

The  Stoic  slave  declared 

To  be,  not  the  loftiest  Thought, 

But  Action,  and  severed  no  less 

From  life's  supremest  joy. 

Which  also  can  never  be  Thought, 

But  only  Love?    Be  it  so; 

At  least  let  me  face  the  truth! 

So  my  inward  strife 

Endured  for  weeks  and  months, 

And  still  my  insurgent  will 

Grew  more  imperious. 

And  more  rebellious  my  heart. 

Then,  like  a  star  out  of  noon. 

Came  a  word  from  beyond  the  years 

Of  my  knowledge  and  my  pain. 

'Twas  my  great  Physician  who  wrote: 

When  I  gave  you  back  to  life, 


I  had  no  power  to  bestow 

Strength  with  the  life  restored; 

Power  unto  life  was  mine, 

Not  unto  vigor  and  health. 

But  now,  so  much  has  man 

Wrested  from  Nature's  grasp, 

That  I  dare  believe  my  art 

Sufficient  to  give  you  at  last 

The  strength  you  have  missed  so  long. 

But,  should  I  fail,  the  risk 

Is  not  your  present  life 

With  its  measureless  riches  of  thought, 

But  death  even  under  the  knife. 

The  chances  are  even;  be  yours 

The  choice,  be  mine  the  attempt! 

Choice!    My  will  upleaped 

To  embrace  the  danger;  and  now 

I  am  lying  on  this  bed. 

And  a  few  short  hours  will  tell 

If  this  be  all  and  the  end. 

Or  life  begins  here  anew. 

I  had  never  dreamed  that  the  sight 

Of  the  city  could  be  so  fair 

As  it  sparkled  and  shifted  and  shone, 

When  yestermorn  my  eyes. 

From  the  stately  steamer's  deck. 

Sought  almost  in  vain 

To  discover  the  old  I  had  known 

Under  the  mountainous  new. 

My  heart  leaped  up  with  a  thrill, 

As  the  city's  empire  unrolled. 

That  I  might  bear  a  part 

In  the  giant  tasks  of  its  toil! 

Then  I  thought  of  the  knife,  and  a  chill 

Caught  at  my  heart,  but  I  said: 

One  chance  in  two  is  mine 

For  a  part  in  that  glorious  life. 

Welcome  the  risk! 

But  now, 
When  Fate  seemed  even  of  hand. 
Came  a  trial  unforeseen. 
I  had  just  renewed  in  mind 
My  welcome  of  the  risk, 
When  a  glow  flashed  through  my  heart, 
Which  I  deemed  forgotten  of  love, 
And  a  voice  above  me  said: 


NEW-BORN 


23 


Is  there  aught  I  can  do  for  you? 

I  looked,  as  one  caught  in  the  sweep 

Of  an  avalanche,  might  look 

On  a  hidden  treasure  laid  bare. 

Even  as  I  raised  my  eyes 

A  sweet  new  trouble  dawned 

In  the  eyes  that  bent  over  mine; 

I  answered:  Only  this,  — 

Come  tomorrow  and  ask 

If  I  am  alive  or  dead. 

Then  I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall; 

And  strange  tears  burnt  my  lids. 


NEW-BORN 

*l^  ACK  again  in  life, 
l^a  Which  long  ago  I  resigned; 
"  -     New-born  at  forty  years. 
Rich  in  experience 
Of  thought  and  suffering, 
The  lore  of  the  ages  mine. 
And  the  world  outspread  at  my  feet, 
Its  paths  all  open  now. 
But  none  can  I  ever  tread 
With  the  care-free  step  of  youth. 
Yet^  since  from  me  through  pain 
Age  took  the  years  that  were  youth's 
Perchance  in  these  latter  years 
My  youth  shall  find  me  again, 
A  youth  of  soberer  pulse 
And  steadier  eye,  but  strong 
And  fiery  hearted  to  drive 
The  plowshare  of  manhood's  will 
Through  the  fallow  fields  of  the  world. 

A  way  to  the  mouth  of  hell 
From  heaven's  very  gate 
The  dreamer  saw  long  ago. 
But  roads  lead  either  way. 
And  up  from  the  mouth  of  hell 
It  must  lead  to  heaven's  gate. 
Three  roads  a  man  may  tread 
Either  to  heaven  or  hell,  — 
Of  Thought  and  Pain  and  Love. 
Happy  is  he  whose  face. 
When  his  feet  on  either  are  set, 
Is  turned  the  upward  way 


That  leads  him  toward  the  Divine. 

But  why  this  lot  I  won, 

When  another,  who  started  with  me, 

Worthier  seeming  than  I, 

Followed  the  hellward  path 

And  is  lost;  that  is  to  me 

Mystery  of  mysteries, 

All  three  of  the  roads  have  been  mine: 

From  the  crowded  highway  of  Pain 

I  passed  to  the  sparely  trod, 

Star-seeking  trail  of  Thought, 

Which  now  on  a  sudden  is  crossed 

By  the  bowery,  music-thronged. 

Level  pathway  of  Love. 

I  had  no  power  to  choose; 

Ere  I  knew  it  my  way  was  changed; 

And  now  I  wonder  if  Thought 

In  another  twenty  years 

Had  brought  me  so  near  the  Divine 

As  Love  in  a  single  hour. 

One  thing  I  cannot  tell,  — 

If  the  way  of  Love  to  the  end 

Shall  be  mine,  or  again  I  must  tread 

Alone  the  summits  of  Thought, 

And  alone  I  must  finish  my  course 

Mid  the  awful  silences 

Under  the  silent  stars. 

So  be  it!  but  this  I  know. 

The  very  silence  will  ring 

With  the  music  of  the  soul 

On  this  way  of  Love  set  free. 

Which  never  more  shall  be  stilled 

In  life  or  the  sequel  of  life. 


IN  CENTRAL  PARK 

CAN  it  be  possible 
That  half  a  hundred  years 
Have  so  transformed  our  life 
That  Webster,  though  in  bronze, 
Looms  not  a  leader  of  men, 
A  master  of  eloquence. 
But  only  as  some  vast  shape. 
Half  sunk  in  Egyptian  sands. 
Majestic,  sorrowful, 


24 


THE   GUERDON 


And  haunted  still  by  strange 
Memnonian  melodies? 
This  is  our  world,  not  his, 
Ours  while  we  have  the  strength 
To  make  it  ours,  not  ours 
To  seal  and  stamp  our  own. 
Had  it  not  been  ever  so, 
Today  had  been  his,  not  ours, 
Nay,  rather,  the  Puritan's, 
The  cave  man's,  the  primal  ape's; 
For,  save  as  the  present  dies 
In  the  act  of  becoming  the  past, 
Alone  can  the  future  be  born. 

So  in  the  leafy  park. 

In  the  fragrant  summer  eve, 

We  walked,  and  so  we  talked  — 

I  talked  —  then  she  began: 

One  thing  I  demand  to  know, 

Which  you  have  never  explained. 

Why,  when  you  asked  me  to  come 

Next  day  to  inquire  for  you, 

And  when  I  faithfully  came, 

You  coolly  sent  me  away 

To  come  again  in  a  week! 

Was  that  your  gratitude? 

And  don't  you  confess  that  it  showed 

Forgiveness  beyond  your  desert 

When  I  came  at  the  end  of  the  week? 


And  overcame  it:  I  willed 
To  hve  under  ether  and  knife 
To  win  back  my  health,  and  win 
More  than  life  and  health. 

I  seized  her  hand,  and  urged. 

Do  you  understand  me  now? 

She  veiled  her  starry  eyes. 

But  left  her  hands  in  mine. 

Had  I  let  you  stay  that  morn, 

I  added,  the  step  of  Love 

Would  have  shattered  the  House  of  Life, 

And  Love  is  of  life  not  death. 

But  now  the  walls  are  firm, 

The  doors  are  open  wide, 

Shall  he  not  enter?    I  gazed. 

For  the  lips  to  curve  into  speech, 

For  the  long-lashed  eyes  to  lift 

And  look  the  answer  I  sought; 

When,  lo!  on  the  lids  two  tears 

Were  welling  into  birth. 

Only  this  I  recall,  — 

Two  kisses  brushed  them  away. 

And  on  that  evening  no  more 

We  spoke  of  time  and  change; 

And  the  stars  —  I  can  see  them  still  — 

For  very  gladness  beamed, 

As  soul  in  soul  we  passed 

Into  the  newer  life. 


Must  I  explain?  I  said. 

Yes,  I  will  explain  —  for  she  shrank 

From  something  in  my  tone. 

Would  you  have  undone  all 

The  good  that  you  did?    You  came 

Like  a  messenger  out  of  the  life 

I  was  risking  my  life  to  find. 

You  came  as  a  part  of  that  life, 

Sent  as  a  pledge  by  fate. 

To  comfort  me  and  sustain 

When  I  entered  the  shadow  of  death; 

Or  was  fate,  which  had  mocked  me  so  oft. 

Mocking  me  unto  the  end? 

How  should  I  know?    The  doubt 

Chilled  like  a  foretaste  of  death. 

But,  at  last,  ere  the  trial  came, 

My  spirit  grappled  the  doubt. 


PROTHALAMIUM 

^gjriijwp^HEN  at  last  I  sought  my  room 

0lil«^  On  that  fateful  night  of  nights, 

^^^^^  Her  kiss  yet  warm  on  my  lips, 

I  laughed  and  said:  Come,  Death, 

Whenever  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  find 

Thy  battle  already  lost! 

Mine  is  the  victory 

Over  thee  for  evermore, 

Won  through  my  champion.  Love. 

I,  who  so  long  was  held 

Aloof  from  the  life  of  men, 

Seeing  their  loves  and  hates 

Dimly  as  in  a  glass. 

Helpless  to  lift  a  hand 

In  their  labors  or  their  strife, 


FROM   FAR   MANHATTAN   HEIGHTS 


25 


Or  as  one  marooned  on  an  isle 

Across  a  narrow  strait, 

Foaming,  not  to  be  swum, 

Which  bars  him  for  evermore 

From  the  life  that  his  fellows  live, 

So  I  have  lived  apart. 

And,  turning  my  face  to  the  stars. 

Have  sought  the  communion  there 

That  I  missed  on  earth;  but  now 

Love  has  come  down  from  their  depths, 

And,  bearing  me  on  his  wings, 

Has  reunited  my  life 

To  the  living  life  of  the  world. 

The  Eternal,  imto  whose  thought 

I  strove  to  uplift  my  own, 

And  who  gave  me  the  answering  sense 

Of  mind  attuned  to  mind 

Across  the  immensities, 

Hath  answered  no  less  the  cry 

My  heart  upraised  to  the  stars, 

And  hath  sent  not  merely  the  glow 

That  entered  into  my  heart, 

Speaking  peace  to  my  soul. 

But  another  life  hath  he  sent 

To  bring,  yea,  be  unto  me 

His  breathing,  living  love. 

Do  you  wonder  I  laughed  at  Death. 

The  shadow,  whose  retreat 

Marks  the  progress  of  Life? 

For  I  am  no  longer  one. 

But  am  bound  with  a  living  bond 

To  the  heart  of  the  Divine, 

And  am  not  of  small  concern 

In  the  imiversal  scheme. 

For  Infinitude  in  its  sweep 

Hath  taken  thought  of  me, 

And  its  pledge,  behold!  is  my  Love! 


FROM  FAR  MANHATTAN  HEIGHTS 

v%^YRiADS  of  years  ago, 
jJxTI  ^^  ^^^  island,  Alpine  snows 
•'  Upsoared  into  simimer's  blue. 

But  rain  and  frost  and  sun 
Throughout  the  eons  at  work 
Have  worn  them  down  almost 


To  the  lapping  of  the  tides. 
Now  man  uprears  in  their  room 
His  moimtains  of  iron  and  stone,  — 
Say  rather,  his  Babel  towers. 
Warring  in  purpose  and  speech. 
Which,  instead  of  lifting  him  up 
An  equal  with  the  gods, 
Make  him  their  laughing-stock, 
Yet  haply  are  promise  and  pledge 
Of  a  greatness  he  yet  shall  achieve. 

On  the  highest  of  these  this  morn. 

Under  a  sky  as  blue 

As  ever  smiled  on  the  snows, 

For  an  hour  we  have  taken  our  stand. 

Ere  we  go  down  to  be  one 

With  the  insect  swarm  on  the  ground. 

What  shall  we  be  down  there? 

Here,  on  this  height  serene, 

In  this  angle  of  shining  sea 

And  teeming  land,  we  are. 

We  can  be,  but  ourselves,  — 

How  shall  it  be  below? 

What  was  the  travail  worth 

Of  ages  unreckonable 

That  out  of  the  primal  mist 

Brought  forth  the  earth  and  at  last 

Brought  forth  ourselves,  were  it  not 

That  we  should  be  ourselves? 

Yet,  what  we  are  moved  to  do. 

Here  on  this  sunny  morn. 

Below  on  a  winter  night, 

In  the  rage  of  battle,  the  blast 

And  sudden  terror  of  fire. 

The  blank  of  palsied  wills 

When  ships  collide  in  the  night, 

Or  under  svunmer's  boughs 

With  the  voices  of  labor  stilled,  — 

What  we  are  moved  to  do 

Will  vary  with  every  scene; 

And  how  shall  it  be  below? 

How  can  we  ever  find 

In  that  stonning  whirl  of  selves, 

And  keep,  our  very  own? 

Far  hence  a  day  may  dawn 

When  man  shall  lean  upon  man 

In  love  and  not  for  help; 


26 


THE   GUERDON 


But  now,  would  we  find  ourselves, 
It  must  be  not  in  toil  for  ourselves 
But  in  toil  for  others;  so  stands 
The  law  of  the  life  of  the  world 
Whereinto  we  were  born, 
Wherein  alone  we  can  live. 

Oh!  not  with  the  glorious  faith 

Of  the  sons  of  morn  we  toil; 

We  cannot  toil  as  they 

To  make  the  world  new-born 

In  the  space  of  the  toiler's  life. 

The  utmost  we  can  hope 

Is  to  advance  by  a  step 

The  progress  of  Justice  on  earth; 

To  be  content  if  we  make 

A  little  lighter  the  toil 

Of  reaping  for  them  who  have  sown, 

A  little  harder  their  task 

To  gather  who  have  not  strown; 

To  think  it  much  if  we  place 

More  of  the  penalty 

For  the  ill  days  of  the  world 

On  those  who  have  brought  them  on. 

And  less  on  the  shoulders  of  them 

Who,  bent  with  their  burden  of  toil. 

Had  neither  voice  nor  hand 

In  the  shaping  of  the  ill. 

And  yet  not  all  for  the  sake 

Of  such  small  gains,  we  toil. 

But  buoyed  by  hope  and  trust 

In  the  day  we  shall  not  see, 

And  living  all  our  lives 

With  faces  illuminate, 

Yea,  roseate,  in  the  glow 

Of  the  vision  of  its  dawn. 

So,  in  this  world  of  ours. 
The  world  we  see  at  our  feet, 
Our  only  possible  world. 
So  alone  can  we  be  ourselves; 
And  so  in  my  heart  I  believe  — 
Start  not,  my  Love,  nor  shrink  — 
Shall  we,  though  one  with  the  race 
Below  us  flaimting  its  hour,  — 


O  glorious  privilege, 
O  more  than  mortal  part!  — 
Shall  we,  helping  man  to  be  man, 
Even  we,  help  God  to  be  God. 

Let  us  go  down,  my  Love; 
Life  awaits  us  below. 


AFTERSONG:    THE  HOLY  GRAIL 

^a^'S  homeward  through  the  snow, 
\^L  My  daughter's  hand  in  mine, 
'^'^  I  wend  at  eventide, 

My  back  to  the  sunset's  flame, 

House  after  house,  as  I  near, 

Yields  not  its  wonted  view 

Of  shapes  that  flit  within. 

Or  faces  that  peer  through  the  pane; 

But  each  is  filled,  indwelt. 

Yea,  flooded,  with  crimson  light. 

The  mystic,  living  glow, 

Blood-red,  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

My  walk  becomes  no  more 

A  walk,  but  a  sacrament. 

And  henceforth  I  shall  see 

In  every  lowliest  house 

Not  merely  a  dwelling  of  men. 

But  a  halting-place  of  the  Grail. 

Go,  little  book,  which  my  brain 
Has  built  for  the  dwelling-place 
Of  a  life  long  shared  with  my  own. 
Of  a  soul  I  would  have  men  love. 
And  give  them  not  alone 
Glimpses  into  that  life, 
Revealings  of  that  soul, 
But  sometimes,  if  thou  canst, 
Translate  for  men  God's  love. 
Writ  large  on  cloud  and  sky. 
Into  the  warmth  that  fills 
The  beating  hiunan  heart. 
Which  ever  was,  now  is. 
And  shall  be  evermore 
The  only  Holy  Grail. 


1^^  I J  \  H      '^>'^  (Mife* /^ii^v  i     f  .       s  ''     ' 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

,Ai3j3'h6^S>C 

lAM  O  1  ^HtZ  -.1ft  AH 

i 

"«W  ^ItO   V)  f\f 

1 

■ 

V 

, 

LD  21A-60m-4.'64 
(E45558l0)476B 

General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 

PAT,  JAN.  21,  1908 


''724ia 


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